


Like Any Rose It's Not Itself

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: A single white rose grows from one of Crowley’s plants. Which is weird, because none of his plants are rose bushes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 191





	Like Any Rose It's Not Itself

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Katie for the beta.  
> Title taken from and story inspired by ‘I’m Sorry I Love You’ by The Magnetic Fields: [Read](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/magneticfields/imsorryiloveyou.html) / [Listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPGWWGRN3c0)

Crowley stares. The plant mister hangs forgotten from a hand by his side. His plants are strong, healthy, and lusciously green, as usual. As if they would dare be anything less. But from one firm stem proudly stands a white rose. Which is weird, because none of Crowley’s plants are rose bushes.

He considers raising his voice. Telling the plants what idiots they are for growing the wrong thing. But the rose is gorgeous. Pure white petals, no blemishes, just starting to unfurl. Does it really matter what they grow, so long as they grow it perfectly?

Forcing a shrug, Crowley raises the mister and carries on spritzing.

-

He thinks no more of it until later that afternoon. He’s sprawled on the sofa at the bookshop, staring at an almost opaque window, mind drifting. Aziraphale is sitting at his desk with a book open in front of him. They haven’t spoken in at least an hour, but the silence is comfortable. An hour or so more, and they’ll get a bottle or two of wine out.

From under the desk Aziraphale produces a box and shakes it in Crowley’s direction. Turkish delight, rose and lemon flavour. At the shake of Crowley’s head, Aziraphale pulls it back. He sets the box down next to his book, fishes himself out a cube, and pops it in his mouth.

“One of my plants has grown a rose.”

“Oh, how lovely,” says Aziraphale without looking up from his book.

“I guess. It’s white as anything, just weird.”

“Weird?” Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley. “Why?”

“I don’t have any rose bushes, angel.”

“Do your plants have a tendency to grow in ways they shouldn’t?”

“Nope.” Crowley pops the p, gives a small shrug, and sinks lower into the sofa.

Aziraphale shuts his book, squirrels his Turkish delight away, and stands. “Yes, well. Wine, I think.”

He seems slightly more flustered than normal as he bustles off to fetch the wine. Crowley's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses.

“You okay, angel?” Crowley asks when Aziraphale returns and hands him a full glass.

“Perfectly, dear, why do you ask?”

“Tad early for wine, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense. It’s always a good time for wine. Drink up.” Aziraphale takes a large gulp from his glass. “It’s a 1921 Bordeaux. Exceptional finish, don’t you think?”

Crowley lets it go, raising the glass to his mouth. “Yes,” he admits. It _is_ delicious.

Soon enough they’re onto their third bottle of wine. Crowley is so low in his seat his bum is hanging off the edge and Aziraphale is sitting demurely beside him. Crowley is in the middle of a story about a woman he saw get her stiletto caught in a crack in the pavement when Aziraphale bursts out with it.

“It’s my fault!”

“You miracled her shoe into the floor? I thought the evil deeds were more my thing.”

“No, not the—the rose. It’s my fault.”

Crowley frowns before he remembers what rose Aziraphale is talking about. His frown turns sharp and he directs it up at Aziraphale.

“You’ve been sneaking into my flat, whispering words of encouragement and… and… _kindness_ to my bloody plants!”

“Of course I haven’t.” Despite the denial, Aziraphale seems tense.

“Then how’s it your fault?”

“Well, I have a habit of… I don’t mean to, obviously… but you see, things seem to… to… manifest.”

“Wha—?” is the best Crowley can manage in response.

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, rotating his wine glass by the stem, and doesn’t say anything.

“Angel—”

“The first time I noticed it was at the start of the 17th century.” Aziraphale speaks without looking up from his still-busy hands. “I’d not long been back from Edinburgh and you took me to The Globe to see Hamlet after your little miracle.”

Crowley snorted. ‘Little’ was putting it mildly. He’d gone a bit overboard—they were _still_ performing the damn thing, 400 years later.

“I was so _happy_ —seeing the theatre full of people enjoying the play, the atmosphere of the whole evening was just wonderful. I went home with such joyous feelings, and all of a sudden—” He takes a quick swig of his wine. “—my pockets were full of pears.” He looks over at Crowley expectantly.

“You do like pears,” is what comes out of Crowley’s mouth.

Aziraphale smiles and nods.

“In 1738, I think it was, I paid one of my rare visits to heaven. Was only there to sign some pointless paperwork, but I—I managed to overhear Michael and Sandalphon saying… _something_ … about me. Something… unflattering.”

Crowley burns to know what hateful things Aziraphale had heard. His hands ball into fists to contain his rage, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want Aziraphale to have to recount the details.

“I didn’t think it had saddened me as much as it did… until I started finding jars of water in my rooms.” Aziraphale looks up into what must be a questioning look on Crowley’s face. “Salt water. My unshed tears, I should think.”

“Angel...” Crowley doesn’t know what to say.

“It gets worse, I’m afraid. I found myself inexplicably surrounded by wormwood for a lot of the 19th century.” Aziraphale looked meaningfully at Crowley. “Drank a lot of absinthe, I can tell you.”

“Wormwood, why—”

“I was _lonely_ , Crowley.”

Realisation dawns. “The 19th century, you say?” It doesn’t seem possible that Crowley can sink any lower into the sofa without slipping right off it, but the sudden guilt he feels helps him manage it.

“Most recently,” Aziraphale quickly moves on, “was in 1984 when I was out bid in a silent auction for a first edition of Decline and Fall.” He pauses to take a breath. “I was so angry that screwed up balls of paper started appearing all over the place.”

“You really need to learn to keep that temper in check. You could seriously hurt someone.”

“Ha ha.”

“Don’t underestimate the evil undercurrent of paper cuts.” Crowley attempts to hide his smile in his wine glass.

As Crowley pushes himself up a foot or two on the sofa, Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“So what’s this got to do with my rose?” he asks.

“As I said—it’s my fault.” Aziraphale sips from his glass. His cheeks turning a rosy red to rival the wine as his eyes glance off in the other direction.

“Why? What are you manifesting?” Crowley considers for a second. “Sympathy, because of how I treat the plants? Envy, because you can’t keep a plant alive?”

“It’s embarrassing, really,” confides Aziraphale. “A trifling thing not to be worried about. You know how emotions are. Flitting about all willy-nilly.”

“Again, what’s—”

“ _Love_ ,” Aziraphale finally gets out. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but I love you.”

Crowley shakes his head, puts down his wine, and sits up another foot. “You’re _sorry_...”

“There’s no need to fret. As I’ve explained, this happens sometimes. I’m sure it won’t last.”

As Aziraphale continues to fiddle with his wine glass, Crowley can’t help wondering what he’s so sure won’t last—the manifested rose, or the love that’s causing it.

“All the other emotions passed, and so did the manifestations.”

Both, then. Crowley begins to sink into the sofa again.

“So, do just… ignore it. Forget about it. Cut the rose off completely and destroy it, if you need to.” Aziraphale’s voice wavers, just a little.

“It’s a beautiful rose, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes dart to Crowley then away again. “All the same...”

He is clearly uncomfortable, so Crowley lets it go. They share a moment of silence before Crowley moves on.

“Thinking about going to the Barbican this week, see what films are showing.”

“How lovely, dear. I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

And they don’t talk about it again. Crowley thinks about it, though. Can’t _stop_ thinking about it. Through a fourth bottle of wine, idle conversation, the journey back to his flat, and a restless night’s sleep he thinks about it. About the rose. About Aziraphale saying, ‘I’m sorry, Crowley, but I love you’. About the fact that for as long as he can remember he’s wanted to hear those words. About ‘I’m sure it won’t last’.

-

By morning, his plants have grown two more perfect white roses.

He doesn’t mention anything to Aziraphale. He shows up at the bookshop the next afternoon, as usual. He throws a casual greeting into the shop at large, collapses boneless into the sofa, and stares unseeingly at some point in the middle distance. As usual.

Aziraphale appears from whichever bookcase he was ensconced at, a small smile on his face. He eyes Crowley for a second, taking a breath to speak before apparently changing his mind. He strolls over to the sofa, a careful air of casualness about him.

“I thought we might go out for dinner. There’s a Persian restaurant not too far away that I’ve been meaning to try.”

“Sounds good, angel.”

And so, after a few lazy hours in the bookshop they head out for dinner. Aziraphale orders two starters, one main, and three puddings. Crowley orders a bottle of wine and a glass of rosewater. If Aziraphale has any thoughts about that, he keeps them to himself.

During the meal Aziraphale is as animated as normal. He gestures wildly with one hand as the other raises the fork to his mouth. He coos and hums over every mouthful, dabbing his mouth with a napkin more often than is necessary. He smiles at Crowley as he tells him about wayward would-be customers in the shop and how he chases them off.

In short, everything is the same. The restaurant is new, but the dance is as old as time. Food, wine, conversation, company. Everything is the same, except that for Crowley it is all so entirely different. Because when he looks over at Aziraphale, moaning around a spoonful of faloodeh, he thinks of white roses and love.

-

A week later Crowley finds himself at a loose end. Aziraphale is spending the day cataloguing every book at the shop, to make sure he hasn’t accidentally sold anything. Neither of them wanted Crowley around for that, so he’s left to find his own entertainment.

He spends some time in the morning spritzing his plants and counting the roses. There are more than 30 of them now. Each one as white as Aziraphale’s hair. Crowley lets his fingertips brush the petals and decides they must be as soft as angel hair, too. The plant room has always been one of his favourite places in the flat, but now he finds it hard to leave. It feels warmer. Safer. Than it did before. He gets a similar feeling at the bookshop, except this is in his own home. It’s Aziraphale. The roses silently sing of him. 

The first rose to appear has now fully bloomed, and Crowley hesitates for only a second before picking up a pair of secateurs and cutting the rose from the stem. He carries it to his scarcely-used kitchen, where he conveniently finds a small vase in the first cupboard he opens. Adding water and the rose, Crowley places the vase in the middle of the kitchen counter top.

Before he can think too much on it, Crowley leaves his flat and drives to The Chelsea Gardener. He spends over a hour meandering around the nursery. Enjoying the sight and smell of the plants, the gentle sounds of wind rustling leaves. He finds what he’s looking for easily. Once he makes his purchase, Crowley drives back to his flat and spends the rest of the day searching the internet for information on rose care.

-

Two weeks later Aziraphale seems to know something is going on and Crowley takes it as his cue.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asks as he passes Crowley a glass of wine.

“Absolutely, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, it’s just the past couple of weeks you’ve been… you’ve still been coming, obviously, but you’ve been arriving at the bookshop later in the day. Not staying quite as long. I just hope everything is okay.”

“Everything’s fine. I’m sorry if I’ve made you think otherwise.”

“So,” says Aziraphale, not looking mollified in the slightest, “you’re not still upset with me?”

“Why would I—”

“About the rose.”

Crowley pointedly puts down his wine, having not yet taken a sip. He pulls his sunglasses from his face and discards them beside the glass. He looks at Aziraphale, waits for his eye contact.

“I was never upset with you, angel.”

Aziraphale holds his gaze for a few seconds before his eyes flitter away.

“Well then, let me tempt you to one of the cannolis I got from the bakery this afternoon!”

A box holding a plethora of cannolis in various flavours is placed on the table. Crowley carefully selects a vanilla, smiling at Aziraphale before taking a bite.

It’s only a bottle and a half of wine later that Crowley finds the courage to ask.

“Come to my flat for drinks tomorrow?” He forces a casualness to his voice that he does not feel. “I’ve got a bottle of Glenfiddich I’ve had since 1937 and it’s about time you left the bookshop for something other than pastries and feeding ducks.”

“I leave the bookshop for more than that,” comes Aziraphale’s retort.

Crowley simply raises a challenging eyebrow.

“I also get sushi and give tourists directions.”

At this, both of Crowley’s eyebrows rise.

Aziraphale heaves a put-upon sigh. “ _Fine_ , I’ll come by after lunch, but I’m stopping to feed the ducks on the way.”

Crowley nods and take a drink, even as his heart begins to race.

-

Crowley’s pacing when the knock at his door comes. He freezes long enough for a second knock to sound and a slightly hesitant, “Crowley?” to be called through the door.

He glances around once before striding to the door and pulling it open.

“Hey, angel, come on in.”

“I know you said you’ve got scotch—” Aziraphale strolled into Crowley’s flat, already rummaging in the hessian tote bag he has dangling from his left elbow. “—but I brought a few bottles of wine just in case. And I only had a light lunch so I bought some sushi rolls from—”

Aziraphale comes to an abrupt standstill in what passes for Crowley’s living room, eyes fixed on the large vase of white roses on the coffee table.

“From your favourite sushi place, near St James’, after you’d fed the ducks?”

“What?” Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley. “Oh, yes, quite. You know me so well!”

“After 6000 years, I would hope so.”

Crowley carefully doesn’t mention or even glance at the roses, but he sees Aziraphale’s eyes dart to them a few more times. If he’s shocked by those, Crowley wonders what Aziraphale would think of the even larger bunch of white roses on his bedside table.

“Let’s go put the wine in the kitchen.” Crowley gestures to the hallway and Aziraphale moves in that direction, with one last quick glance at the vase of roses.

They don’t make it far. Between the living room and the kitchen is Crowley’s plant room, and as soon as Aziraphale steps into it he stops dead, mouth dropping open. There are dozens and dozens of white roses now, growing from every plant. As fast as Crowley can cut them, they grow back.

“This is… Oh, dear, Crowley I—I’m so sorry. How ridiculous of me. I’ll try harder to—This is—”

“ _This_ is not why I invited you over. Come on, angel.”

Without even thinking about it, Crowley takes Aziraphale by the hand and leads him through the flat. Obviously too flabbergasted by all his manifested white roses, Aziraphale doesn’t protest. Though his head twists to watch the plants as they walk away.

In the kitchen Aziraphale absent-mindedly deposits his bag on the worktop. He turns to Crowley, eyes downcast, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t,” Crowley gets out first. “Don’t apologise again. Please.”

Aziraphale closes his mouth, wrings his hands, then opens his mouth again. “You invited me over for a reason, then? Not just for drinks and a change of scenery. And not for—” He glances back down the hallway.

“Not for those.” Crowley moves to the small balcony off the kitchen and slides open the glass door. “For these.”

He hears a sharp in take of breath as Aziraphale steps out on to the balcony.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he whispers.

Stepping out beside him, Crowley keeps his eyes firmly on the rose bush he’s been caring for for the past few weeks. It is four feet tall with healthy green leaves and about a dozen dark red roses just starting to bloom.

“Did you—”

“I bought the plant,” Crowley quickly states. “My—I don’t—my feelings don’t manifest. But I do have them. Feelings.”

He can feel Aziraphale watching him. Can feel the weight of his gaze, as heavy as the feelings in his own chest.

“It only had a couple of buds when I brought it home, and I knew my usual approach to plant maintenance wasn’t going to happen. I talk to it, obviously, but instead of scaring the thing I...”

Aziraphale touches his hand to Crowley's elbow and Crowley turns to him.

“You what?” asks Aziraphale gently.

“I talk about you.”

A warm, soft smile spreads over Aziraphale’s face. He looks hopelessly fond, and Crowley is fairly certain another few white roses just manifested themselves from his plants.

Crowley shrugs, trying to offset the sentimentality, even as he knows his next words will only intensify it.

“I grew these roses not with fear, but with love.” He looks over at Aziraphale. “My love for you, in case that wasn’t—”

“Yes, I got that.” Aziraphale slides his hand down Crowley’s arm and entwines their fingers. “Thank you.”

“Well, you know, ngk.”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand slightly. “I know.”

They spend the rest of the day out on the balcony next to Crowley’s rose bush, sitting close on the small rattan bench Crowley managed to fit out there. They hold hands, drink scotch, and smile at each other a lot.

At some point Aziraphale disappears to refill their glasses and comes back with a large vase of white roses. He places it on a small table next to the dark red rose bush, before placing himself back next to Crowley on the bench.

“They compliment each other quite well, don’t you think?” asks Aziraphale.

“They go together perfectly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Re: Wormwood. I went basic and used wikipedia's [plant symbolism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism) page, where wormwood means "absence, bitter sorrow". Plus the idea of Aziraphale using the manifested wormwood to make his own absinthe and then getting shitfaced on it amuses me.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


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